Palace of Darkness (32 page)

The street had grown quiet, the noonday sun driving merchants and laborers under shade for a respite. Malik was quiet also for a few minutes.

“Julian, Vita’s death was not your fault.”

“She would not have been there—”

“Perhaps not. But she would not have been taken home to eternity if the Lord had not allowed it. The death of His saints is precious in His sight.”

“Well, I see it differently. And I would imagine her family does as well.”

“God has them in His hand, Julian. But there is more at issue here than even a family’s grief. The question is whether you will become the man God calls you to be and allow Him to use your past and
even your mistakes to further His kingdom rather than using them as excuses to hold back.”

Julian shot to his feet and turned on Malik. “You have done nothing but push me into places I do not wish to go since I arrived here, old man! How many times must I explain that I am no great leader, nor will I ever be?”

Malik opened his mouth to speak yet again, but Julian was tired of talk, tired of guilt. Tired of Petra. He held his hands in front of him to stop the flow of Malik’s words, then spun and walked away.

If only he could be anywhere but here, in this city of stone.

THIRTY-FIVE

M
ALIK PICKED HIS WAY THROUGH THE MAIN CITY STREET
, barely noticing the shoppers whose shoulders he bumped, forgetting to step around the piles left by rude camel drivers who did not keep their animals to the gutter. His feet carried him to the Great House, empty of council members today, but his thoughts carried him to the future and left him feeling despair.

How can this boy lead, Jesus? He is so young.

The answer came swift and sure.
Think of My ministry at his age.

“Yes, but You were the Son of God!” Malik crossed the first courtyard of the Great House, drawing the curious look of a servant who scrubbed the courtyard floor.

He entered the quiet room where the council met and crossed to his customary place in the half circle of seats that rose around a central platform. The room was desolate, empty, and the sunlight filtered in without much strength, leaving the room gray and shadowy. Malik rubbed his knuckles across the rough stone of his seat and slumped backward.

He felt friendless and misunderstood in this place, and he thought
of Julian’s father back in Rome, taking his stand in the Senate. The thought gave him little comfort. Rome was a long way off, and here in Petra, Malik was alone.

I need more time, Lord. More time to establish Your church here, to strengthen the believers. I am not ready to pass it to another. Not yet.

He felt the Lord had things to say to him, but he didn’t want to hear. He closed his spiritual ears to the small Voice and instead filled the council house with his own loud voice. “Not yet!”

The words echoed in the hollow shell of the room, and with the uttering of them, a deep and pervading sense of fatigue fell on him. Yes, he was tired, very tired.

Had he achieved all he had hoped in his lifetime? Had it been enough? The question brought him once again to Julian. The boy longed for impact and importance in a way that was different from his father’s quiet influence in Rome. Not a better way, necessarily. But different. And Malik knew that God wanted to give Julian that desire, but only if he could surrender his own need for achievement, for acclaim and approval, that drove him even yet. Julian would have to become a servant before he could ever be a leader.

And he will.

Malik was unsure if the words were the Lord’s or his own, or if perhaps they at last were speaking in harmony.

Step outside.

Malik obeyed. On the steps of the Great House, he paused, waiting for more direction.

The High Place.

Malik turned reluctant eyes upward, to the flat top of the nearest mountain, the place where evil acts were performed in the name of Petra’s demon-gods.

The place where I will show Myself strong.

The red cliff of the mountain formed the backdrop of the amphitheatre on the other side of this city, but from this side, the cliff was a sandy incline of sparse trees and bushes, with a lone track weaving upward past carved tombs and family caves. Malik’s gaze traveled the direction of the path until he scanned the flat surface of the mount. He was much too far away to see the altar he knew rested there, nor could he see the obelisks that had been carved as
betyls
for the gods, resting places for them where the people could worship.

He squinted when he spotted a puff of smoke rising from the lip of the plateau. Was there, even now, a sacrifice being offered on the altar?

The sun scorched his eyes, and he lifted a hand to shade them and watched as the smoke continued to rise, to become a billowing cloud that grew and spread over the High Place.

And then the feeling came, that feeling of the
knowing,
only it was not a prophecy, nor even words spoken to his spirit from the Lord. It was only the smoke.

Understanding filled him. A vision. He must watch and try to understand.

The smoke lifted and spread until it covered all of the mountaintop, and then flames ignited. Like a brush fire tearing across a field of dry wheat, the flames roared over the High Place in a mighty, purifying blaze. Malik watched, mouth agape, as the mountain’s red stone ran in rivers like blood, as though the High Place had not only been burned but ripped open and now bled to death before his eyes.

The place where I will show Myself strong.

Yes, Lord. Yes.

The words lifted from his spirit like a song, and he felt a rending of something within him, something that had been tight and fearful and secret.
I am ready, Jesus. I am ready.

The vision evaporated like a desert mirage and the High Place of Sacrifice returned to its solid form, but Malik’s heart had become pliant and his soul rejoiced in the knowledge that Jesus’ name would soon be proclaimed before all of Petra, and he was to play a part.

He needed to call the people together. They must be prepared for what was to come, for the time that would call on each of them to surrender, to speak, even to shout.

Malik hurried from the Great House steps, his feet light and his heart bursting.

He swept through the city as quickly as his feet would take him, stopping in shops and homes only long enough to poke his head through doorways and pass along the word that he wanted the church to gather as soon as possible in his home.

“Spread the word,” he called to Alawin in the pastry stall as he passed, and the slight man lifted a hand in acknowledgment and lowered the flaps over the front of his stall.

By the time Malik reached his own courtyard, it was filling with believers and buzzing with conversation. Malik paused at the entrance, remembered his forlorn thoughts in the empty council house.

Forgive me, Lord. You are faithful, and You do not leave us alone.

He was embraced and kissed as he passed through the cluster of people. They wanted to hear firsthand what had happened in the palace that morning and were disappointed Julian was not present to give details. Nahor and Niv arrived and described the scene, and by the time they had finished their tale, there were tears at the loss of Marta.

Malik decided that enough had gathered and he should begin. He stepped onto a bench to be seen by each one. “Tomorrow, my friends, as you know, is the Festival of Grain.”

The courtyard quieted at his voice, and faces turned toward him in respect. He felt that little surge of gratification at their submission
to his authority, then forcibly handed it to his Lord.
I am ready,
he thought again, reminding himself that his days of leadership were coming to an end.

“The Lord has given me a vision.” The people stilled, eyes wide to hear it. “A vision of the High Place, covered not with the evil of the powers and principalities of this earth, but with the strength and might of the risen Christ!”

He smiled down on them, their faces lit from within. “We will be part of this testimony, my friends. I do not yet know what God will have us do, but I know we must be ready.” He grew serious. “Gather provisions, brothers and sisters, and prepare your families for travel. It may be that after tomorrow there will no longer be a place for us in Petra.”

Faces before him became grave, but he sensed strength from them. “God will be strong for us and through us, but we may be called to sacrifice and suffering, as our Lord was.”

He debated for a moment whether to tell them what the Lord had given him regarding Julian’s leadership. That he himself would not be among them much longer, though he did not know where he would be. A twinge of sadness fluttered in his heart at the thought of separation from his dear flock. At the idea of them going on without him. He must have faith Julian would be there to lead them on.

No, it was not yet time to give them this burden, when so much was still unknown. Including the whereabouts of Julian, who still had not shown his face in the courtyard. Another entered, however, and Malik’s attention went to the young girl at the courtyard entrance, whose stricken face brought a surge of concern.

“What is it, Tabatha?” He had not noticed her missing from the group but remembered now that she had been in the palace this morning, waiting to help Marta carry Cassia’s boy in the basket of washing. Had she only now heard about Marta’s death?

“I’ve just gotten free of my duties.” Her eyes were full of unshed tears.

“Marta was a godly woman—” Malik hoped to give some comfort, but Tabatha interrupted.

“They have taken Cassia!”

Malik shook his head and looked to Hozai. “She was to be at the mouth of the gorge, waiting for Alexander. Did no one go to her?”

“She was not there. I assumed she had received word of our failure already and returned to the city.”

“No.” Tabatha wove through the crowd until she reached Malik’s feet where he stood above her on the bench. “She was in the palace—she was there when Marta was killed and Alexander was taken to the throne room.” She dropped her head. “I was hiding, and I saw the guards grab her. She fought with them, but they took her.”

Malik stepped down and lifted the girl’s chin. “You could have done nothing and would have only endangered yourself. Better for you to have escaped to bring us this news.”

She smiled through her tears and nodded.

Malik scanned the group. “Is Julian still not among us?” Heads turned to search, but he was absent.

What had happened to Cassia? Was she a prisoner with her son in the palace, or had Hagiru already made an end of her?

A wave of sadness rushed through him. Cassia had found a special place in his childless heart, and his throat tightened at the prospect of her harm.

He sighed deeply over his people and looked once more to the entrance to his courtyard.

Julian, where are you?

THIRTY-SIX

C
ASSIA
’
S CELL GREW COLD, AND IN THE COMPLETE DARKNESS
, she did not know how much time had passed. How long had she wandered along the riverbank with the One who seemed to still be present, even here in her cell?

She sat with her back against a dank wall, and the packed earth of the floor was rutted and bumpy, but she noticed little of the discomforts. Her mind wandered freely over the past, into the present, and even to the future.

So many years of relying on men, of remaining weak to keep their love. She had come to Petra believing that to be strong she must stand alone. But she had failed alone as well.

What if the strength she sought did not come from men or from within herself?

You must love from strength, not need.
The words of Malik and the words of Jesus in her dream mingled and she was not certain who had told her that.

But how was she to do what they said?

She had always wanted people to love her, needed them to love
her like she needed air to breathe. She had ordered her life to please them, and when they loved her, or even seemed to love her, she would cling to that love desperately until she had turned it into an object of worship and let it rule her.